


All Saints

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: scarvesnhats, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-31
Updated: 2005-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evening of November 1, 1981 - a whole new world and fumbling comfort</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Saints

Remus wakes first, body aching from the unfamiliar contortion of sleeping in a narrow infirmary bed. He doesn't move, despite the pins-and-needles protest of the arm that's trapped beneath Sirius' weight, but drifts instead, buffeted by memory.

This tangled waking had once been usual.

In school their limbs had never been the same length twice, and Sirius's knees were all but weapons by the start of sixth year. But they'd managed; Sirius pressed carefully to the curve of his spine, holding him close after moon-set, tired. They never talked – there was nothing to be said, and breath against breath was a better comfort.

But it's different now, unfamiliar, and war's written untidy secrets on Sirius' skin. There's a bruise on the inside of his wrist, as if someone had held him and shaken him hard. There's a scar on his thigh, a sinister curve where none had existed, and amid the smoke-soft spill of his peccant hair, there's a single strand of restless silver. It startles Remus to see it, a mark of aging that James will never bear, and he tightens his hold on Sirius instinctively. He's hardly conscious of the movement of his hands, of trying to prevent him slipping away, offering his frame as a last-ditch anchor.

When Sirius wakes, the shadows cast by flickering candles heighten the wash of confusion on his face. "Hogwarts," Remus whispers. "All Saints day."

If his own grief lies heavy and dark in his stomach, Sirius' is lodged between the vertebrae of his spine. There's a broken shudder beneath Remus palm and Sirius is sitting, tearing at blankets, swinging his feet to the stone-flagged floor. Remus winces as blood rushes back through his forearm. His fingers burn with their sudden awakening.

"We should leave," whispers Sirius. "It can't be safe."

"And where would we go?"

Sirius swallows. "I . . . I've no idea."

The choice is quickly made by others – Pomfrey, Dumbledore, the remnants of the Order. "There are quarters for you both," Albus offers, "here in the castle. Harry must stay."

Sirius pauses in his pacing. "For how long?"

"Until arrangements can be made to assure his safety." Albus eyes him, as though weighing his potential. "We surely agree, Sirius, that Harry's safety should be our first concern?"

Sirius turns, pale with anger as he narrows his eyes. He lifts his chin – aristocrat, Black. "I'm his godfather," he hisses.

There's old magic - lost magic - bound up in naming, and the candles sputter beneath Sirius' claim. Remus feels the hairs on his arms stand on end and he shivers, waiting, studying the fall of Sirius' borrowed robes.

Dumbledore nods, an acquiescence that seems artful, not instinctive. "Harry is yours," he agrees, "and injured – he belongs here. But this is no place for grieving."

They're given quarters protected from the distant echo of childish conversation by heavy oak doors. Remus touches the walls, sees the room in which he's standing in his mind's eye, shifting - space on a boyish map. The raw edges of his loss solidify as though inked onto parchment.

There are wing chairs pulled up to a table by the fireplace, a simple meal laid out for them both. There's pumpkin soup, the colour of October, and thick-crusted bread, butter, and tea. The scent of the soup is autumn, unspoiled, and Remus can't bear to taste 'what if' so soon. He pours the tea into fragile cups, adds milk and sits unmoving, Sirius' equal and opposite force.

He sips from his cup, but it's hard to swallow when a lifetime's worth of words are struggling with this limitless ache, and Remus nurses his tea for its warmth, not its taste. "I hate James," he manages at last, a stripped-bare whisper that pinches and snaps.

Sirius stares, his hand on the windowsill. "You don't mean that."

"I hate him." He's choking on everything he wants to say, every unasked question and frantic thought, a limitless rush of _how could this have happened?_. "We _need_ him . . . "

He can't quite marry cause and effect, but the cup he was holding lies upended on the floor, cushioned by the pile of a crimson carpet. There's tea on his trousers, a stain at his cuff, and he barely notices the fearsome grasp Sirius has on his hand.

They find their understanding in utter quiet, and it's almost midnight when Poppy brings Harry to them, sleepy and fractious, disconcerted. Harry reaches out toward Sirius, flexing his fingers. "Dog," he says, squirming. "Dog, dog, dog."

Sirius plucks him from Poppy's arms and nuzzles his hair. "Thank you," he whispers, as Harry grabs at his robes.

"He'll sleep again before long," Poppy offers. "The magic he . . . repelled – he's exhausted, poor child."

"We'll keep him here," Remus says with certainty.

There's a cradle sent up, but Sirius won't put Harry down, preferring to slouch on the sofa with him nestled in the crook of his arm. Harry falls asleep with his head on Sirius' shoulder, tiny hand flung out across his godfather's chest.

"We'll find a house," Sirius whispers. "The country – it's what he's used to."

Protests rise to Remus' lips, practicalities bound up with the moon. He lets the words die – it's hope they need now, not plain-thought caution. "A garden," he offers. "Where a dog could play."

Sirius' grin isn't quite familiar, but there's a glimpse of Marauder in the flash of his teeth. "We'll buy him books, read to him at night."

 _Like Lily did_ , thinks Remus, and nods with a smile. "He'll need new toys."

"And clothes."

"We should try to paint his room like . . . like they did." A weekend soaked in three shades of yellow, and Sirius banned from using magic in the house.

Sirius nods. "He'll be a Quidditch genius."

Remus snorts, feels laughter like an ill-fitting sweater, stretching across the planes of his back. "If you get your way . . . "

"Youngest Seeker in Hogwarts history." Sirius adds, cheek pillowed against his godson's head, flush against the cowlick James bestowed. "All-England team."

"A mischief-maker."

"Prankster of the first water," Sirius agrees.

Remus thinks of the births that persisted through war. "Neville Longbottom," he murmurs, fingertips pressed to the window, tracing frosted curlicues of earliest winter. "And the Weasley's youngest." He turns to look at Sirius. "The Malfoy's boy."

"Soon as he can string together a sentence, I'll start him on hexes" says Sirius emphatically, shifting in his seat.

Remus smiles, moves to sit beside him. "You know he'll hate Arithmancy."

"And Potions. But he'll be a natural at Transfiguration." Sirius arches an eyebrow. "How could he not?"

"Start a rock band."

" _Yes_." Sirius is thrilled by the idea and lowers his voice in proper respect. "Spend his twenties being pelted by knickers."

"Set up a dragon preserve," Remus murmurs.

Sirius smiles. "Negotiate peace with Bulgarian vampires."

"Brew ale from sand." A fond, fifth-year wish.

There's a lengthy silence. "Be loved," Sirius says at last.

Remus nods and touches Harry's hand, watches infant fingers curl instinctively around his own. "Yeah," he agrees, propping his chin on Sirius' other shoulder as darkness swallows borrowed dreams.

They're all Harry has now, boys who'll love him; guardians with torn jeans and bitten-down nails. Such insubstantial protection, Remus thinks – a motorbike, their fridge on the blink, books and beer bottles in a pile beneath the sofa, and Peter's lies still littering the doormat. The world beyond their cracked bathroom window nurtured the evil that brought them to this and now – what now? Replace the glass?

They sit on the couch, an awkward press of shoulders and knees, and it's only love that keeps them upright – battered and stained, resilient yet. It's love that hollows their memories and closes their throats; love that has them find the other's hand and hold on tight.

What saints there are disappear at midnight, as the prayers of the living seek newer souls. _We'll watch him_ , Remus promises, _as we should have watched over you_. The fire flares in answer, and November doesn't pause.


End file.
